yellow
by inlemoon
Summary: hiyori meets yato, love ensues. little oneshots.
1. words

Yato sits in the library and drums his fingers across the blonde wood of the desk. He looks off, stares, turns back to his project, huffs and taps the pen to his lips. He knows what he would write, if he could–he'd write all the swirling monsters in his head, the nightmares, all that shit that came before. He'd write all of his days in neat penmanship, letters aligned beautifully, meticulously, almost _obsessively_ , in dark purple ink. He'd write them so well people would buy all of his memoirs, his voluminous anthologies of collected wisdom, even his _scribbles_ ; they'd pay great funds to meet him, and he'd sign each volume, or, maybe, never show up to the bookstore at all, but what would it matter, it was written by him and him alone and it would be so great they'd invite him back, anyway. He'd write until he was dizzy, until someone built a golden shrine, and all his words would be etched in the archways, on the ceilings and on the floor; he'd stack the manuscripts up, until they reached the ceiling, words over words, scribbles over scribbles, layers upon layers of crisp white paper brimming with the stories in his head.

And he thinks on this as he glides the pen over paper; not in violet ink, as in his mind, but black– the only color of pen that still worked from the assortment he filched from the librarian's desk. The paper is not weighted, it is not embossed with golden borders, it is plain, college-ruled looseleaf smudged with someone's old math on the first half of the page. Beneath this desk is a century's worth of half-chewed gum, his reason for showing up in the first place; but it'll still be here in an hour, anyway, and he's got the scraper in his pocket. And so he writes. Or tries too, but it starts and stops on the phantoms, on the clean slice of his blade, on the tales of his greatness. All the words worthy of a halfway-decent god sputter out into nothing and he's left with nonsense, no grand phrases arching into eloquent sentences, no surges of literary genius and no refined wise poignancy, or fuck it _all_ , not even any punch.

He looks off again, looks back, nearly throws his pen across the room.

Why oh why does it all look like _her_?


	2. pushpress

In the spring, the air is sweet.

Yato pulls his fingers through her hair, sleek and brown, knotless, shiny under the midday golden sun. His fingertips trace her cheek–soft and pink, and her lips are pink, too, and parting, as he leans forward (it feels much more like tumbling) to press his own against them. It is their fifth kiss–she stole the first an hour prior, lips pressed quick and pulled away quicker, and he's counted each one since. This one is the longest, lingering, leaving him without breath; when she pulls away she is flushed red and he is sure that he is, too.

She pulls him back and kisses him again– _six and seven and eight and_ – he just quits counting.


	3. streetlamp

The light from the streetlamp is a perfect yellow circle. It swallows Hiyori whole.

"Yato?" she calls softly, "That you?"

"Yato _the Great,_ " replies the darkness, "I'm improving my branding."

She rolls her eyes and they land beyond the circle on his silhouette, dark and lean. And she senses something, here-a long and sordid past, perhaps, or maybe it's just the wear of too many tasks for too little pay, or maybe he's killed people, or maybe he's left the sink on in someone's house and feels guilty, or maybe he's talked to _her_ again. Whatever it is, in some small way she can see that he is not of this place.

She shivers.

He steps in front of her and she can smell him, the nice scent underneath the stench of trash, and a chill crawls its way down her spine when his fingers lace through hers. This is still all new to her-brief whispers, clasped hands, lips brushing sometimes. She trusts him, really, but sometimes wonders where he's been and who he's seen, not for _those_ sorts of reasons (though, okay, she's wondered about it, after all he is a thousand years old or more and it's _perfectly natural_ to do so, and-)

He pulls her forward, gentle. Their lips touch and his fingers trace her jawbone; her pulse rises and rises and she wonders, just a little, _is it new for you, too?_


End file.
